


Equality of Affection

by innie



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, Semi-Epistolary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: Charlotte returns home and fits herself back into her family.  (Picks up right where season 1 left off.)
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood & Alison Heywood, Charlotte Heywood & Georgiana Lambe, Charlotte Heywood & Mr. Heywood, Charlotte Heywood/James Stringer
Comments: 28
Kudos: 54
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Equality of Affection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [useyourtelescope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/useyourtelescope/gifts).



> For the incomparable [useyourtelescope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/useyourtelescope/pseuds/useyourtelescope), who won one of my Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 auctions! And for any other Stringer babes lurking out there, because he is the dreamiest.

Sitting in the carriage, alone and tearful, Charlotte felt like a flower that had been forced to shut itself up into a bud again, made to endure a process Nature had never intended. 

Well. Alison would no doubt say she was being overly dramatic, if she put it like that; the letters she had managed to remember to post had been much more restrained in tone. But she had learnt so much, had seen more — of the world and of one particular man — than she'd bargained for, and had opened her mouth for that man's kiss in the heady air of Sanditon. She'd thought to become a woman, even a wife, and instead she had been set aside for a lady who knew how to get what she wanted, sent back to her parents like a child who ought never to have escaped the schoolroom.

She wiped impatiently at her wet and hot cheeks with a gloved hand. Her visit to Sanditon had been the greatest adventure of her life — there had been truth in what she had said to Mary — but surely that only argued that her life was too small? She had lived as if she were the heroine of some grand novel, and the weeks apart from her family had scored her heart, that poor battered thing. Back she trundled to Willingden, in the mustard-yellow coat she'd once thought enough to cheer her out of any low temper. Back to her little life, the daily rounds of which she could not escape.

She fixed a smile on her face when the carriage made its last turn, and she could hear Billy and Sam exclaiming over the fineness of the horses and how impressive it was that _four_ of them, so perfectly matched, had been dispatched to send home _their sister_. On the morrow, she knew, they and her smaller sisters would be less enthused about her return, as it signalled a resumption of their lessons, but for now they were glad to have her home and curious about what might be in her trunk that they could claim as forfeit for her staying away so long.

Their bright chatter filled the air as they dragged her by the hands to the cosy room where her mother and Alison laboured over cloth and ribbons, and the happy sound reminded her irresistibly of Alicia, Jenny, and Henry; how short a time it had been since the reminder had run in the opposite direction, when she'd sought her brothers' and sisters' features in the faces of the small children with whom she was living.

It was, after all, good to be home, to be surrounded by family rather than trying to forge her own path alone. It was good to be able to rest for a moment. She told herself so very firmly as she stepped into her mother's familiar embrace.

*

Alison's eyes narrowed as Fanny emptied Charlotte's trunk. Charlotte turned to see what she was gazing at with such intensity, and her inattention meant that the hairbrush snagged in Hattie's curls. "Ouch, Charlotte!" Hattie said reproachfully, surprised out of her usual silence.

"Sorry, my love," Charlotte said quickly, determining that it had been the blue boots that had caught Alison's assessing gaze; it was possible Alison was already designing a gown that would suit the boots very well — the white with grey accents she'd worn it with had been a partial match at best.

"Did you wear your hair up like Mama when you were in town, Charlotte?" Peggy asked, watching as Charlotte brushed Hattie's chestnut hair until it shone.

"No," she said. She must have seemed like such a _child_ to Sid- to all of Sanditon, running around like a green girl let out of the nursery for a half-day's holiday. But she had not felt as a girl did.

"No," she repeated, launching into the story her sisters wanted to hear. "It would have done me little good to try to be fancy and grown-up, as I walked by the sea every day and the wind was so brisk and lovely that it tore my hair to pieces."

"The sea!" Peggy exclaimed, exchanging a significant glance with Hattie. "We've read about the sea!"

"Tell us what it's like," Hattie begged.

"It is . . . vast," she said, putting the brush down and sitting. Annie toddled over to sit in her lap, and Charlotte smoothed back the soft curls that felt lighter than air. "So deep a colour that one cannot say whether it is blue or green or black. And the sound of it echoes in your chest." She held a fist up against Annie's heart in a futile gesture, then rocked her to make her laugh. 

"Like the river?"

"Much more than the river. Everything is amplified." _A man cannot step into the same river twice_. "When we are all a little older, we shall have to convince Papa to take us to the sea." _For he is not the same man, and it is not the same river._

"Yes, and we shall all turn brown and get our hair in knots that cannot be undone, likely," Alison said, picking up Annie and herding Hattie and Peggy to their bed.

Charlotte's arms, bereft of the warmth of a cuddling child, felt much emptier than they ought to have. She picked up the hairbrush once again and counted out one hundred strokes of her own hair, not bothering to be gentle. Would that she could pull the thoughts out of her head with the same motion.

*

Alison had got ready for bed but made not even the slightest pretense of being asleep when Charlotte joined her. She'd thought that having a room to herself at Sanditon would be the height of luxury, but she'd missed her sister's warmth next to her. Trafalgar House had been too grand for her after all.

But her heart had not known there were obstacles and had bounded gaily on, chasing Sidney Parker, the sharp-tongued scion who'd shouldered the burden of providing for the entire family. "Will you tell me what happened, or are you still fashioning the tale to be as romantic as possible?" Alison asked, startling her.

"What do you mean, what happened?" More than she had been before, she was grateful that she had not posted her frankest, most hopeful letters to her sister. "Nothing happened. It was a proper visit, that's all. I attended three balls. I walked by the sea every day. I helped with the children — they were such darlings."

Alison looked at her with such acuity that it was as if the candlelight were bright as the sun, mercilessly revealing all of her thoughts and deeds. "At least tell me how you managed to tear your new petticoat so ruinously that you lost half its fabric."

"My petticoat?" she asked, hardly remembering until the memory bludgeoned her anew. "Oh! That was when Mr. Stringer — Old Mr. Stringer — had his fall and his leg needed to be tended."

"And I suppose not a single man could lay his hand on a bandage and you needed to make a hash of my needlework?" Alison asked.

"It _was_ terrible, though you'd think none of them had ever seen blood before." Alison shook her head at the inadequacy of men. Charlotte recollected how horrifying the scene had been. "Old Mr. Stringer was very brave. Young Mr. Stringer was too," she recalled. He'd gone white to the lips but had not faltered in giving his father his strong arm, his nearly steady hand. He'd taken _her_ hands when she'd delivered the best news she could give, and his touch had been warm and firm. And then Sid- then Mr. Sidney Parker had entered the scene, whisking Mr. Stringer away and then broaching, mortifyingly, the subject of the view she'd got down at the coves, when she'd been walking innocently along and dreaming of nothing in particular. She flushed hot and blew out the candle before Alison could see the colour crawling up her cheek. "Good night," she said, the last wisps of smoke scenting the air over their bed.

*

Papa decreed the little ones should have one more day of holiday from their lessons, at which Mama shook her head reprovingly so that the lace at the edge of her cap fluttered, but over the children's exuberant yells Charlotte heard Papa explain that he meant to take her around the property with Oliver and Hugh, the better to inform her of the work that was being put in to modernise the tenants' cottages and point out the innovations he'd made at her urging. Delighted by the notion — and this further proof that Papa had missed her — she smiled as she broke her fast, eating with a hearty appetite whilst feeding Annie, perched on her lap.

The walk was a great success. Papa had done much, and she recognised how well he'd transformed her ideas into reality. The new design allowed light and air to circulate freely, and the windows were well-placed and of a most pleasing shape. If there was not much variety to the view, that fault at least could not be laid at his door. She approved, heartily, and thought Young Mr. Stringer might too. Writing him with all of the details of what Papa had created, aided by Oliver and Hugh, would be a pleasant way of spending the afternoon, and would ensure that he understood that the desire she had expressed to maintain the friendship was entirely sincere. Merely thinking of his amiable countenance was buoying her spirits quite effectively.

He had often worn a look that she knew she had seen before without being able to put a name to it. That was the expression she pictured each time her thoughts turned to him, though to be sure his face was a particularly clear translator of his emotions — she had seen him grieved, hopeful, frustrated, and gallant — and words were often unnecessary. Even those he chose with care, she reflected; she should do no less, and she would write him that very day.

*

She strove for a tone of cheerful inquiry in her letter, detailing all of the improvements that had been enacted in her absence and asking after the rebuilding. It was no secret that Mrs. Campion's money was funding his livelihood and that of his men, and he had seen and seemed to understand all that had transpired between her and Sidney Parker, so she did not shy away from the finer points. _Is Mr. Tom Parker sharing managerial duties with his brother, and have you at last been supplied with the men and the equipment you need? Have you been able to introduce your designs, or is speed too much the primary demand? There is no one more capable that Sanditon could have at its helm, and I am assured your labours will be appreciated by the most discerning._ She lifted her pen from the page, surprised by the certainty coursing through her and the wish that she might see for herself what his strong hands and talented mind were building. But she was not likely to receive another invitation to stay at Trafalgar House.

_I am enclosing a few sketches — pray excuse the poor work, I had not thought it would be so difficult to draw straight lines — of a sample cottage. You will see Papa spared no pains, though I must confess that I would be even happier with the design were it to earn your stamp of approval; I am conscious of an uneasy sensation that I have forgotten something quite fundamental that would render the cottage uninhabitable, though I go through a list every time I consider it: front door, windows, chimney, &c. Do please set my mind at ease?_

She ought not to beg for any more of his time. If, as she suspected, Mrs. Campion and Sidney Parker were overseeing the building works now, Mr. Stringer would have little leisure for answering her letter. _Please give my best to Mr. Robinson, and know that I am pleased to sign myself your friend, Charlotte Heywood._

* * *

Mary's letter, fat in its envelope, was a delightful surprise when Papa dropped it in her lap, and Charlotte hastily set the children to conning French verbs so that she could dive into its beckoning contents. When she opened it, the reason for its thickness immediately became apparent: there were pages from the three eldest children, spotted heavily with errant ink. 

Alicia had struggled mightily to record not only her own sentiments — she was missing the stories Charlotte had used to tell them at bedtime about her own childhood — but Jenny's and Henry's as well. All three were united, apparently, in imploring her to return and play at naval history with them once more. Their affection was plain, and she found herself smiling down at the shaky, smudged letters. With their drawings, they had fared better, a simple ship's outline easy to recognise on the page.

There were two other missives enclosed within the children's papers, and Charlotte ended the French lesson and made her way to Papa's study, lying empty, before turning eagerly to them. Mary's would be first, and she sank back into Papa's chair to give it her full attention; they had had to be circumspect at their parting — with Tom and the children attending, they had let their eyes do much of the conversing — but now she was braced to hear the details of Sidney's forthcoming wedding, Mary's preparations to welcome a new sister into the family, how well the rebuilding that Eliza Campion was financing progressed, and how much the children had grown.

But Mary's own note was merely a cover to explain that the children had not given her a moment's peace until she supplied them with paper and ink and made them an earnest promise that their missives would be properly posted just as Papa's letters were. Charlotte felt cheated but tried to understand this behaviour. Was Mary fearful of giving her pain by speaking of Sidney, and so keeping herself only to meaningless pleasantries? She would have to assure her in her reply that no such precautions were necessary. 

She turned to the last epistle in the packet. Mary had forwarded a letter addressed to her at Trafalgar House from Susan, as unlike Mary's terse note as it was possible to be; Susan's missive was full of the details of the weeks since she had last seen Charlotte, inquiries about all of the arrangements at Lord Babington's wedding, and minute descriptions of the gowns and gloves she'd purchased and the events in Bath that she planned to wear them to.

"What have you there, Charlotte?" Papa asked, entering the study with his heavy ledger in his hands.

"Oh!" she said, caught quite by surprise. "This is from Susan — Lady Worcester, I should say — and the rest are from the little Parkers." She rifled through the pages until she found the one with the children's drawing of a toy ship and held it up for him to see.

He did not so much as glance at it. Instead, brow darkening, he laid the ledger down and bent over her. "Lady Worcester?"

"Yes, Papa. I met her at a rout and we became friends —" She faltered at his grave look.

"Charlotte, do you not recall the warning I gave you before your departure for Sanditon? Lady Worcester is infamous, the Prince Regent's favourite! You have ignored what is right and proper and established an intimacy between yourself and a woman your mother would blush to hear named!" He plucked the letter from her hand and tucked it into his pocket. "Have you had any other correspondence from this woman?"

"No, Papa," she said, blinking the tears out of her eyes. Why had she behaved so foolishly? "I am sorry. I had heard that the Prince Regent was her friend, but had not understood the terms of their relationship." In her thoughtlessness, she had disappointed Papa, and the knowledge was hard to bear.

He laid his hand on her head, stroking her hair as if she were yet his small daughter whose curiosity he had delighted in satisfying. "I am glad that she was good to you, but this intimacy must cease immediately. I wonder at Mrs. Parker's allowing it."

"Yes, Papa," she said obediently, considering for the first time whether Mary would have chosen to acquaint herself with Lady Worcester were it not for her husband's dire financial straits.

"Well, well, you are a good girl, Charlotte. We missed you," Papa said.

"I missed you all so much," she said, reminded of how many blessings she truly had; she had a veritable army of Heywoods at her back, whilst there were others who had to make their way alone: Georgiana, who had a guardian she despised and a lover whose faithlessness had endangered her so severely, and poor Mr. Stringer, who'd lost all chance of hearing any such paternal words when his father overworked himself and lost his life. 

No one should be so alone. In her at least they each should find a fast friend.

* * *

Mr. Stringer's letter, when Papa delivered it, put Charlotte in two minds. It was so neatly written, the copperplate in such precise lines, that she thought he must have laboured for hours at it. And yet he was leading an endeavour of such scope that he could have found only twenty minutes at most to pen his missive, and even that would have come at the expense of his daily bread and cheese. That he had chosen to spend his leisure in answering her was, above all else, a sign of his steady friendship; she knew she had done nothing better in Sanditon than securing it.

_My dearest Miss Heywood,_ she read and must have made a noise in her throat, for Alison looked up from her embroidery. Charlotte shook her head, fortified herself with a sip of tea, and looked again. _Dear Miss Heywood,_ it said that time, and she felt obscurely disappointed at her friend's utter lack of presumption. 

Of course he did not write like a lover might, no flowery compliments or superlatives littered the pages — as if the poor man hadn't enough worries without losing his heart over a fool nursing a broken heart of her own! — and yet she felt his keen interest in the topics she had raised and his sincerity in wishing to answer her fully. _I am impressed by the design and view you sent of the tenant's cottage, and I found the proportions you sketched to be peculiarly pleasing. I cannot see what you might have omitted; the thing seems well planned and, if your notes on the materials are to be understood as fact rather than wish, well executed. My only suggestion is to make adjustments to the layout of the rooms as follows, which will preclude kitchen-smoke from clouding the parlours or sleeping apartments._ His thoughtfulness was inexpressibly touching, as was the delicacy with which he amended her work.

_Of my friendship you are always assured — James Stringer_ said the last line, slightly larger than the rest. She could call to mind his face as he'd stepped close and told her that in his estimation she outmatched Eliza Campion in every way. She had been too raw inside to appreciate his partisan words on that day, but she recalled them now; perhaps the warmth they lit in her explained that moment of monstrous vanity, her fleeting wish that he _had_ courted her, if only so she had some assurance that she was indeed desirable and not always destined to be set aside. 

He deserved better than to be second best, steadfast as he was. 

She found she could not stop picturing him in his rooms. She knew just where he'd sat to answer her letter; his quarters might feel empty without his father, but they were too small to have space for more than one desk from which to comfortably write. He would have been illuminated by the sunlight pouring in from the window in front of him — or, possibly, by the flickering flames of candles — as he moved his hand steadily across the page. She wondered which kerchief he would have worn, if he ever fiddled with the knot of it as he tried to compose his next sentence. Not that he had many of the mannerisms of careless youth; he had been, she supposed, set to work far too early for the kind of leisured gestures that Sid- that the Parkers routinely employed.

"What are you reading, that you've gone pink as a rose?" Alison asked, her needle moving too quickly to be seen as anything but a blur of silver.

"Nothing," she protested. It must have been recalling Sidney that had brought the colour to her cheeks, but she had not felt the usual sorrow crushing her heart in its grip.

*

_I have been trotted out in front of Eliza Campion, who pretends not to care that my wealth greatly outstrips her own. Sidney puts on a horrid coaxing voice — when he is not thundering his demands of me — and assures us that we will love each other as 'family' (ha! he dares!) very soon, even as she continues to refer to me only as 'the . . . ward' (with unspoken but not unvoiced sentiment clearly ringing between the words) and I, scrupulously proper, call her by the title she took such pains to earn: Mrs. Campion._ When Georgiana put pen to paper, she was capable of writing with great frankness and little prudence.

_Oh, Charlotte, little as I would have had you bound to such an unfeeling monster, it is very hard to comprehend the blank misery of the days that lie ahead when I shall be forced to share a house with him and his wife! Almost I wish that she would insist on his shuffling me off to some other corner of dreary England, even if it were to prove a horrid place that made Mrs. Griffiths' boarding house seem a veritable paradise. Why can I not return to Antigua?_

"Charlotte!" she heard, and looked up from the letter, written in Georgiana's small but not particularly neat hand. "Mrs. Farringdon is expecting us for tea, and here you are with ink on your fingers!" Mama said, sounding unsurprised. 

"Is she?" Charlotte asked guiltily, folding the letter back up. "Has Alison —"

"Alison has left you the rosebud frock and laid it out on your bed. Come along."

It was kind of Alison to have granted her the rosebud frock, her favourite of the many she had taken to Sanditon; she had had the entire family's allotment of frocks in her trunks, and since she had been back, Alison had been altering them so that each sister got at least one for her Sunday best. Watching Alison's swift and sure needle made her feel like one of Mr. Hankins' useless lilies of the field, unable to comprehend, let alone practise, such skill, but Alison insisted that she was amply repaid by Charlotte's gift for reading aloud and keeping the younger girls busy.

Charlotte scrubbed her hands. Mama aided her in donning the frock and then held her hands when the last button had been fastened. "It is good to have you home again, Charlotte. I confess I was uneasy about letting you leave for such an extended visit — though mothers of daughters must resign themselves to losing their girls — but to know your head was not turned by the splendour of the Parkers' house allayed my fears."

"Oh, no, Mama," she said, startled into candour by the confession. "The house was very beautiful, but I do not think I could become accustomed to so much space. I had to undertake lengthy journeys just to reach Mary's parlour or Mr. Tom Parker's office. I found myself most often in the nursery, expressly to hear the sounds that I am most used to hear at home." One of the boys — Sam, by the sound of it — laughed then, the echo of it carrying up the stairs.

"Well, Mrs. Farringdon will want to hear about the fine furnishings, so cast your mind back to the grandest room and be prepared to describe its many charms." Mama led the way out to the lane, where Oliver was waiting with what looked like impatience.

It was only when she saw Rose Farringdon's face grow bright at the sight of Oliver that she understood why he had been pressed into service as their escort when none was necessary. And it was only when she saw Oliver's gaze soften and his squared jaw give way to a shy smile that she realised that Miss Farringdon's sentiments were returned. For the first time, she regretted how long she had been away, that she had missed such an important development; it was not only her life that had progressed in the months she had been at Sanditon.

Oliver could not stay to tea, but he bowed and turned on his heel, whistling as he went. Charlotte looked at his departing figure and was struck by how little it took to please him. Just so had James — Mr. Stringer — seemed to her, brightening at every fresh proof that they thought alike on matters of ambition and talent and opportunity.

She ought to write him again, and include a sketch of the Farringdons' hearth, which was unusually fine. When she did, she enclosed a pressed rose between the pages, hoping the creamy yellow of its petals would brighten his unadorned rooms.

* * *

Sam and Billy had been given leave to run down the lane and admire the horses and the gleaming carriage, but Charlotte could not help wishing that they had stayed clustered close to her as her sisters did, or gone to fetch Papa, when she was faced with such daunting company. 

Georgiana was sipping her tea with an air of serenity that Charlotte was certain had to be spurious, but Miss Lambe, sitting with her back perfectly straight, carried it off well. She had allowed all of Charlotte's sisters to introduce themselves with curtseys and saved her best smile for Annie, who had managed only a tottering bob and whose frankly admiring gaze was a silent but potent compliment. Next to her, Charlotte judged, Eliza Campion did not seem nearly as at ease.

"Dear Sidney's dear . . . ward _insisted_ that she should call on her bosom friend Miss Heywood, and Sidney and I were quite longing to visit the quiet countryside, Mrs. Heywood," Mrs. Campion explained, running a careful hand along the silk of her skirt, the better to allow it to shine in the lamplight. "So restful, so quaint. And of course we would not deny ourselves the treat of seeing Miss Heywood, happy at home, once more."

Charlotte searched her mother's face, noting the placid acceptance of all Mrs. Campion said; she ought to have explained the tangled web of love and fortune centred in Sanditon in far greater detail. Alison, at least, was studying Sidney Parker as if to locate a seam in his façade — how Charlotte hoped that he did not recognise Alison's frock as the one she had worn that night when he declared his preference for her over Mrs. Campion — and the other girls were watching Georgiana's every motion, noting that she refused sugar for her tea and admiring how daintily she consumed her slice of cake.

Charlotte found her own gaze alternately attracted to and repulsed by Sidney's face. Handsome as ever, strong features that easily commanded attention, but . . . was she flattering herself to think that she could see a disconnect between the lifeless mask he wore now and the face of sensibility that he had once shown her? Gone was the man who could speak of his best and truest self; this Mr. Parker evinced no depths at all, no sincerity. Well did she understand the sacrifice he had made on behalf of his family, and yet she could not respect how readily he had diminished himself. He smiled and nodded at all of Mrs. Campion's pronouncements, vapid and cutting by turns, and did not acknowledge the frost that evidently had not thawed between his ward and himself.

Startled by her unsatisfactory observations, Charlotte met Georgiana's speaking gaze. This, then, was what her friend had feared for her to discover too late: that Sidney adapted to the level of his environment and put himself, as he had said, entirely in the power of others. With her, supposing his emotions had been genuine and lasting, he might have made an effort and been happy and good, but in accepting Mrs. Campion's mercenary bargain, he had not troubled himself to be better than her money required.

"And Charlotte, dear Miss Heywood, of course our wedding would not be the same without your presence," Mrs. Campion said, tearing Charlotte's gaze from her intended.

"In Sanditon?" she asked, heart speeding up. "How _are_ Mary and Tom and the children?" Mary, she could not help feeling, was the one who had suffered most due to all of the machinations; having lost faith in her husband, she must have quickly been disappointed by his brother as well. The children, too, would be missing their uncle.

"No, we are to wed in London," Sidney corrected in the polite, toneless voice he had adopted, "and set sail the next day." If their destination had been mentioned in the conversation, Charlotte could not recall, and she found she was uninterested in the question in any case; one glance at Georgiana's face assured her that the family was not embarking for Antigua. "My family are very well, thank you. You may see for yourself at the wedding."

Surprise — and her profound disappointment — rendered her inarticulate. "Oh, I —"

Mama came to her rescue as easily as if it had all been rehearsed. "I do not believe we can spare Charlotte again for another visit in the coming months. Please, do accept our felicitations now and know that our best wishes are yours on the day that you marry."

Georgiana's gaze beseeched her to deny Mama's words and acquiesce to join them. That Charlotte would not do, but, anxious to assuage her friend's loneliness, asked, "But Georgiana may stay for a proper visit now, mayn't she?"

"Ah." Mrs. Campion's beautiful face was set in an unyielding smile, quite the opposite of Mama's graciousness and Georgiana's hopefulness. "I am afraid not. Miss Lambe is in Sidney's care, after all, and a fine guardian he should be if he abandoned her now!"

The pronouncement very evidently served to make none of them happy, and Charlotte could only surmise that Mrs. Campion, desiring to make clear her victory in the battle for Sidney Parker's heart, was cutting off her own nose to be revenged of her face.

Charlotte could scarcely conceive of a time when that heart had been a prize she had wanted desperately to win.

* * *

The day of Sidney's wedding dawned bright and clear in Willingden. It could not be a day of rejoicing — too much hurt had scarred too many hearts — but it was by no means the day of sorrow she had anticipated. Georgiana had written of her hopes of prevailing upon her guardian to live in London rather than returning to Sanditon. _Sea air_ , she had written, _is a poor substitute for people who can make interesting conversation. But I suppose there is more to Sanditon now than merely its location. Mrs. Campion's money has bought rapid expansion and the town has taken shape, though I cannot say much for her taste. Still, it is done, and it looks as costly as it was, which seems to be all Tom Parker and Lady Denham desired. Were I to indulge in a similar folly — in Antigua, not this cold and dreary island — I should do things quite differently. But London has my countrymen threaded through its very fabric, and may well prove to be a stepping-stone on my path back home. I cannot come of age quickly enough!_

_Write me, Charlotte, when your sisters can spare you._

Charlotte, reading this epistle for the fourth time, found her imagination failed her when it came to picturing Sanditon in its finished form. James had not enclosed sketches of his own, and his last letters had touched only very generally on his work and not at all on his plans once Sanditon was complete. She had done her best to indicate her readiness to support whatever future endeavour he took on, but had shied away from putting the question directly; having had his plans upended once by his father's fatal accident, he must be wary of getting his hopes up again.

She folded Georgiana's letter and tucked it into the packet bound by a blue ribbon — bright blue for the Antiguan water Georgiana had said was more perfect than glass — and returned the bundle to her pocket. She walked along the walled lane, enjoying the freshness of the air and her solitude and the feeling of the stones she knew so well under her fingertips. It was early enough that the songbirds were twittering in choruses and the dew had not yet dissipated. She paused when she thought she heard footfalls.

Around the curve of the lane, striking against the backdrop of pale grey stone, came Mr. Stringer. A thousand thoughts came crowding into her brain at the sight of him: how pleasing his face was, particularly when he had surrendered himself to honest enjoyment of the day's delights; how well he carried himself when active; how she knew his smile would light his eyes and then stretch his mouth; how very glad she was to see him.

"James!" she cried, hurrying forward and putting her hands out. His own came up to grasp them.

"Good morning, Miss Heywood," he said, squeezing and then freeing her hands. "I am glad to see you in such good spirits."

Charlotte could not help smiling up at her friend. "I hear you are to be congratulated on completing an extraordinary enterprise."

He demurred, as she had expected, but she sensed it was not only his natural modesty that disinclined him to take the plaudits he had earned. "I merely executed another's vision." He looked at her, studying her face as if he meant to commit it to paper. "I have not yet built from my own design."

"That will surely come," she counselled him, then turned and took his arm in order to lead him to the house. "Now you must meet everyone, and join us for breakfast." She became aware that he was carrying nothing but his battered leather satchel and stopped so abruptly that little clouds of dust were raised at her heels. "I beg your pardon, I did not even ask you the purpose of your visit!"

"I have bid farewell to Sanditon," he said, obligingly answering her where they stood, "and am taking up the apprenticeship in London."

"Oh!" She unhooked her arm from his and fixed her gaze on his boots.

"Fred — Mr. Robinson — has gone ahead to find us lodgings, and I must be on the afternoon coach to meet him there. I have hopes that my master will take him on as well. As good a worker as he is a friend, Fred is."

"You must write me once you are settled, that I might have your new address," she said foolishly, simply to say something. She had known his work must come to an end, but somehow she had pictured him as a fixed point in Sanditon, available the next time Tom Parker had ambitions. "I am sure you will prosper in London and your designs will be in demand by the most discerning patrons."

"Is that truly what you believe?" he asked. She could see that he bent his legs and guessed that he ducked his head down to catch her gaze, but she was far more stubborn and kept her eyes safely down.

She had underestimated his desire to read her face, and she gasped when she felt tender fingers at her chin, tilting it up. "Charlotte?" he asked, and she could feel warmth spreading from her chin to her toes, tingling as it coursed over her body.

"It is what I know," she said, looking up into his soft oak eyes. She caught his hand as it pulled away from her face and held it in her own. "Please," she said.

He looked at her with dazed disbelief. "I came here to bid you farewell also." 

"Do not do so," she pleaded when she had meant to command.

James was suddenly clumsy, dropping her hand but offering the arm she had taken so happily a moment ago. "I must," he said, beginning to walk again. "You know I must."

The simple truth of his words kept her silent as they made their way up the lane to the house. Once inside, she could hear that her family were in the breakfast-room, conversing over their bread and butter. Annie, having missed her usual seat on Charlotte's lap, was poking her inquisitive nose into each room as if she thought to find her concealed under a rug. Her face brightened when she caught sight of them, and Charlotte, glad to have something to do with her anxious hands, picked her up and set her on her hip.

Before they could proceed, Charlotte heard Papa call her name and beckon them into his study. "Papa," she said, rather breathless, "this is Mr. Stringer. Mr. James Stringer. The foreman of the construction of Sanditon, and soon to be an apprentice architect in London."

"Sir," James said, putting out his hand in workman fashion, and she smiled to see Papa accept it without a murmur.

Papa took one long look at her before he spoke and she had no doubt he discerned every emotion churning inside her. "I have heard your name spoken once or twice," he said with his customary affability. "It is good to meet you, sir, and welcome you to my home. I hope you will take breakfast with us and cast your professional eye on our cottages?" Papa gestured to the door, but they made no progress, as Annie decided to mimic the greeting and held her hand out to Mr. Stringer as well.

He smiled — broad and genuine, and Charlotte could see his dimples — and allowed her to shake his forefinger. Charlotte ducked her head to press a kiss to the top of Annie's head and led the way to the breakfast-room.

The boys cleared off straight away, taking the benches and leaving the chairs at the table for Papa and his guest, and Charlotte sank down and adjusted Annie on her lap. When she glanced up, she saw that James had doffed his coat and hat and chosen the chair next to hers. He looked taken aback by the number of eyes on him but managed a smile and a nod of his head. "This is my friend, Mr. James Stringer," she said, wondering if she ought to make individual introductions, but Alison's speaking eye caught hers and she froze. Alison smiled, tapped her throat to indicate that she approved of the pink kerchief he was wearing, and fixed her gaze on James. He did not wilt under it as a lesser man might.

"I am Jem to my friends," James said, evidently referring to Mr. Robinson and the men he oversaw. "Your sister writes most affectionately of all of you. I believe I could put a name to each of you."

Mama stepped forward then with a smile, and held out the plate with Bath buns. He took one and pulled it apart, handing the larger piece to Annie, who'd begun wriggling on her lap and reaching for her favourite treat. On his behalf, Charlotte accepted chocolate from Alison and toast from Hugh, who prided himself on his expertise with the toasting fork. James — _Jem_ — spread butter on the hot bread and put the first slice on her plate.

"Have you visited London before, Mr. Stringer?" Papa asked. Charlotte chewed her bite of toast, guiltily aware that none knew that she had ventured there herself and nearly been swallowed up by the city of sin.

Jem put down his cup of chocolate once he had drained it. "I have not, sir. I would hardly have thought of putting myself forward for an apprenticeship without the talks Miss Heywood and I used to have." Was that true? Had he been content to follow where his father led and not strike out on his own? Surely his talent would have won out?

"Charlotte is uncommonly persuasive," Papa said with a teasing smile. "Come and see the cottages she persuaded me to modernise."

"It would be my pleasure," Jem said, trying to stand, but Annie had climbed from Charlotte's lap to cling to his arm and side. He seemed unable or unwilling to detach her, and stood with her in his arms. Annie poked curious fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a thin item of a pretty shade of gold. Charlotte saw it was a petal from the rose she had sent him — a match for the ones in a jug on the table — and felt her heart lift.

Papa took hold of Annie and handed her, still clutching her prize, to Mama. "Charlotte, do please join us."

*

Jem said much in praise of the Bells' cottage, the first to be finished. Charlotte found herself standing straighter under his considered approval, though she knew Papa was attending closely to the conversation. How many times had she seen Mr. Stringer just like this, his professional mind fully engaged, his shirtsleeves rolled up so that the pleasing strength of his forearms was apparent? It was only that he had never had the green familiarity of Willingden behind him rather than the dust of a worksite. Though she wanted to deny it — how terribly she wanted to believe he belonged with her — he looked slightly out of place on Papa's farm.

"Are you venturing to London on your own, Mr. Stringer? Where are your family settled?"

"I have none, sir. I will be sharing lodgings with my friend Mr. Robinson."

"And your apprenticeship will take some years, I believe? You are to be commended for your patience."

"My father was a stonemason, sir, and his profession strengthened his natural inclination to take the long view. He did not think in terms of seasons or even years, but in generations and centuries." Jem's voice was certainly very pleasing, though he was speaking of the length of time in which they would not meet at all and could converse only in correspondence.

"I should like to think I have some foresight myself," Papa said. "I have brought up my two eldest sons to be worthy stewards of this land and its leases, to understand that they hold this property in trust for their own children. And my daughters — well, the eldest two have found their own paths. Charlotte might have made a fine architect."

Jem smiled his agreement. "She has a keen eye."

"And a copy of _Hargreaves' Catalogue of Plans_ taking up significant space in my study," Papa went on. "I believe she has made herself into an ideal helpmeet."

Charlotte stood rooted to the spot. Jem seemed to have been similarly afflicted. Papa laughed at them both. "I acquit you of having any motive in coming here other than taking one last look at Charlotte before throwing yourself into your work, Mr. Stringer, but I am the one who will have to dry her tears when you leave. I will not part with her to any but an established architect, but let us agree that that man will be you, however many years down the line that may be."

"I . . . I had not thought to speak until that day," Jem said, his very being seeming to light up as he took in Papa's full meaning. "To ask if I might be given a chance. Charlotte! Charlotte, do you —?"

"Yes," she said, not sure if she had whispered or shouted or even spoken aloud. She felt as though she were floating.

Papa clapped his hands together once. "Then I have much to tell your mother. Mr. Stringer, I understand you must be on your way this afternoon. My sons and I will take you to the coach." At Jem's dazed nod, he turned and set out for the house.

Charlotte walked directly into Jem's arms, gratified when they closed fervently around her. She spoke into his chest, the ends of his kerchief tickling her nose. "Were you truly not going to speak until you felt you had earned the right?"

"How could I, when I have nothing to offer you?" She flushed at the response, pleased that he had understood her murmurs and dismayed that he did not acknowledge his own value.

"You have given me your friendship," she said, lifting her head to look at his dear face. "That is not nothing to me."

His fingers found her chin again, tilting her face up. She waited for him to tire of looking at her, but grew impatient and pushed herself up and kissed him. His kiss was different from Sidney's — he was not as confident, not nearly as practised, but she thrilled to its sweetness — and she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him closer still. He held her to him, dipped his head to kiss her again, once, twice, thrice, unable to keep from smiling between kisses.

"I have not had such a friend before," he said, half-teasing and wholly sincere, when at last they pulled reluctantly apart from each other.

"Nor I, Jem," she said, straightening his kerchief and leading him back to the house.


End file.
